


Dreams to Sell

by Prochytes



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Torchwood
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 08:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5737006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long ago, an 0-8-4 was cached in the Home Counties. Several parties are interested in securing it. The custodian is very Welsh, and not constrained by a strict regard for the truth. But it’s always possible to make a deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for _Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D_ to 2x22 “S.O.S.” and _Torchwood_ to 4x11: “The Blood Line”. Title and chapter-headings are from “Dream-Pedlary”, by Thomas Lovell Beddoes. Coulson at one point quotes Tennyson, “The Passing of Arthur” 2. Angst, dark themes, and violence.

The candle was almost spent when she returned. 

The room presented an oppressive aspect, even to the long-departed day. Now, it hugged its opulence close in the candlelight. The wan glow gathered the Chesterfield sofa, the Lalique chairs, into conclave around the empty pentagram chalked upon the floor, and the crabbed Enochian script that surrounded it.

Then, the pentagram was no longer empty.

The air was slashed by a thin, sharp whine, as though of a small animal in unrelenting pain. This is the scream of sundered shadow, of a realm that cringes at its violation. The candle guttered once, twice. It composed itself again in stillness. The shriek of shadow ceased. The only sound that remained to trouble the candlelight was the rasping breath of the woman in the pentagram.

She lay on her side, with her knees close to her chest. Her clothes, scarlet under sable, grasped at the wounds upon her arms, her flanks, her thighs. Blood crept forth to incarnadine the chalk. Her hands were fixed upon the burden that she held against her breasts. Her eyes, unblinking, were fixed on nothing. 

Time passed. Outside, car alarms berated the Manhattan night. No one listened.


	2. A Cottage Lone and Still.

The Pembrokeshire coast, where moments of calm have to be filched from the wind and rain, presents certain obstacles to drying laundry. The white blouses, passive on the washing-line only five minutes before, shivered now at the intimations of a gale. 

The woman in the garden looked at the fidgety garments, frowned, and reached into her basket for more pegs. The pegs of the Twenty-First Century were squat, unlovely things, whorled like a motorway junction, or a half-arsed sigil. She missed the wooden crocodile ones of the Eighties. We all become unwilling time-travellers, if we live long enough. 

One of the sheets, flapping more urgently as the gale approached, betrayed a blemish. Must remember to dab some Vanish on that. The sea-gulls were acting up more than usual.

Gwen Cooper pursed her lips and reached into a different basket. She fished out a somewhat threadbare pair of scarlet knickers, which she affixed with deliberation beside the blouses. Then, with a single swift movement, she pulled the pegs off the flapping sheet, stepping aside as the wind carried it past her body, and used the momentum from the step to plant a backwards kick on the short biped with (now) a face-full of sheet that had been creeping up behind her. 

Gwen felt the kick connect, and heard a gasp. She dove for the gun in the big laundry basket by the bushes (closer than the back-up piece strapped below the picnic table, the back-up back-up piece beneath a loose tile on the path, or the rifle inside the tree), not looking back to admire her handiwork. Anything that could circumvent the perimeter safeguards needed putting down quickly. Gwen ran feverishly through the Rogues’ Gallery in her head. It was about the size of Tate Modern, and, like Tate Modern, many of its exhibits were oddly shaped. At least the sheet and the surprise attack had bought her some tim…

Her opponent’s kick landed just as Gwen grasped the gun, which skittered away across the parquet in consequence. Jesus, that was fast - faster than me ( ~~Androgum~~ , ~~Sontaran~~ ). But not much faster, or I’d already be dead ( ~~Raston Warrior Robot~~ , ~~Weeping Angel~~ ). 

Gwen snarled and turned, hurling a hopeful hook into the space where her assailant should have been. A dark blur ducked beneath her swing, and delivered an upper-cut to her chin in return. Gwen staggered backwards. Fast and strong ( ~~form-locked Skrull~~ ). But I’m still… conscious (keep it together, Gwen love; don’t pass out). So not _that_ strong ( ~~Asgardian~~ , ~~Kree~~ ). In fact, none of the output, when you got down to it, had been outside peak human parameters, which meant that Gwen’s opponent could easily be…. 

Oh.

Oh. Shit. 

Gwen took a breath and focussed, knowing what she would see in front of her: a wiry, middle-aged woman in a black form-fitting outfit. She sighed.

“Hello, May.”

Melinda May looked impassive, which could hardly have been a stretch. She stood still in what Gwen recognized as one of her favourite guard stances, economical, but ready to unleash grief from a thousand angles. She did not speak. Never much of a talker, May, even before... well. Gwen sighed again, and ploughed on:

“So…. that ‘from the ashes’ routine I’ve been hearing whispers about was bollocks, then? All snakes in the end, even the little spider, even you. And now you’re cleaning house, hitting everywhere at once. Is Kate Stewart sitting in her Tower with an arrow through her eye, May? Did they send Natasha after the kids in Ealing? Everybody knows what happened to Drakov’s daughter. Like they used to say in the old days: ‘The Black Widow speaks fourteen languages, and can’t say “unacceptable targets” in any of them.’” 

Silence. May was strong for her size; Gwen’s chin was a convincing witness to that. She was ungodly fast. But she didn’t have a lot of mass to play with. May liked surprise attacks, or capitalizing on an opponent’s opening move. Can’t afford to give her that.

“My gun’s over there.” Gwen nodded in the direction of the parquet. “I doubt that you’ve brought one of your own. You always did prefer to take other people’s. If you’re planning to kill me, May, you’ll have to do most of the work with your hands. Like in Bahrain.”

Oh yes. Make her angry. Gwen desperately blocked and feinted as the blizzard of punches and kicks swept in. Tactical bloody genius, that’s me.

Gwen landed some solid blows, but the balance of trade was not in her favour. The world began to stutter and jump, like an old home movie. Won’t win the fight like this. She can pummel me from any direction she likes. Can’t take much more…

Gwen spat out blood, and hissed: “My location. _There came a Wind like a Bugle._ ” 

The bubble of purple force that sprang up around them unsighted May enough for Gwen to unload a hard right cross on her cheek. May stumbled back against the enveloping purple, but did not fall. She eyed the porphyry curtain, and, to Gwen’s surprise, spoke.

“Force-field containment. Vocal trigger.”

“Yes. You’re too slippery to catch by yourself, alas.”

“I thought that I knew all your Torchwood tricks.” 

“Oh, like Walkers Crisps, we are. Try to throw in a new flavour every now and again so that things stay fresh.” Keep her talking. I have more to gain from the respite than she does. “I hope that a good American appreciates the reference; I needed to look it up. Bit of a Torchwood tradition. We had an operative who liked contingency plans and Dickinson.”

“Friend of Harkness?”

“He killed her twice. I suppose you could consider that a mark of affection.”

“You made this a cage fight.” May was still scrutinizing the bubble. “Took my manoeuvrability out of the equation. Clever.”

“I thought so,” said Gwen, and readied her guard as May moved in. A bruising ninety seconds later, she reeled back as far as she could, gasping.

“Clever,” May resumed, “but not enough. We’ve done this before, Gwen. Remember Paris? It’ll take a while. You’ll get some good shots in.” She wiped blood from her split lip. “But you’ll lose.”

Gwen winced and wearily raised her fists once more. “Let’s see if I can improve on my high score.”

“No need.” May lowered her hands and, in the most unnerving development that Gwen had experienced in at least six months, smiled a brief, wintry smile. “I’ve seen what I needed to see.”

“What? Oh bloody hell….” Gwen’s shoulders slumped. “This wasn’t a hit at all, was it?”

May smiled again. It did not get any less disconcerting the second time. 

“This was one of your sodding security tests.” Gwen rolled her eyes. “Did I pass, then?” 

“There was a time when you would have made me forty metres out instead of twenty. You’re still paranoid and conceited. You still hit like a hick,” May examined the red on her fingers, “although the hick’s in a truck. But you’re still devious, and still Torchwood.” 

“There are easier ways to find that sort of thing out than trying to kick someone’s arse, you know.”

“‘Trying.’ You’re sweet.”

“I shouldn’t have brought up Bahrain. That was uncalled for.”

“You used the resources at your disposal. You always do. It didn’t work. You can’t get inside my head, Gwen. That’s why you can’t beat me.”

“If this isn’t a hit, then what do you want?”

“The Director would like to consult with you on a matter of mutual interest.”

“He would, would he? Well, you can tell Fury from me to stick it right up his…”

“The Director said, ‘Once she starts swearing, tell her this. “Fay ce que voudras”.’”

Gwen stopped short. “He said that, did he? Exactly that?”

“He did.”

“Take me to him.”

“I will. Once you drop this force-field. If you _can_ drop this force-field. As I recall, Torchwood doesn’t have a great track-record of understanding its own tech.”

Gwen scowled. “ _How much can come and much can go, and yet abide the World._ ”

The bubble disappeared.

“Ain’t that the truth,” said May.


	3. The Crier Rang the Bell.

“Ooh…. Let’s go mad. I’ll have the triple-cooked chips as well. You only live once, eh?”

“Right you are, Yvonne.” The burly man in a t-shirt repossessed the laminated menus. “How are you keeping?”

“Not so bad, Ron. The firm’s got me gadding up and down the length of the country as usual, though.”

“No rest for the wicked.”

“That’s right. How’s your youngest? Did she get the grades for Newcastle?”

Ron beamed. “Starts in September.”

“Fantastic! I’m thrilled for her. But where are my manners? These are my friends, Grace and Bob Andrews.”

Ron smiled at the handsome, middle-aged couple sitting next to Yvonne. Bob was wearing a nice suit. Grace, for whatever reason, was dressed like Diana Rigg in _The Avengers_. 

“They’re accountants from the States,” Yvonne continued. “Eyes met across a spread-sheet – very romantic.”

“Wasn’t it just?” murmured Grace, squeezing Bob’s hand affectionately. 

“Grace and I got to know each other at a kick-boxing class. Just had a match, in fact. It was pretty brutal.”

“Ah. I was wondering why you looked so banged-up, Yvonne.”

“You should see us in action, Ron. Proper Charlie’s Angels, aren’t we, Grace?”

Grace smiled winningly in reply.

“Their young cousins are outside, getting a breath of fresh air. Is the order OK?”

“All up here, Yvonne.” Ron tapped his forehead. “Still like a steel trap, after all these years. Shall I bring the dessert menu later?”

“You know me too well, Ron,” said Gwen, as the big man bustled off. “You know me too well.”

“When May told me that you wanted to _rendez-vous_ at _The Crown_ , Gwen,” Phil Coulson moved his cuffs away from a small mere of suspicious-looking sauce on the table-top, “a tiny, irrational part of me hoped that that was the name of a Torchwood installation, and not a pub.”

“Not just a pub. Best little Beefeater Grill in Buckinghamshire. Don’t tell me you’ve gone all la-di-da since you made Director, Phil. Congratulations on your elevation, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Although rising up the greasy pole must be small beer after rising from the grave. You and Jack need to knock that off, you know. It’s not a competition.”

“Where is Jack, by the way?”

“Oh, nowhere special. Off-world. Has been for a while. There’s a situation developing that needs our attention.”

“Well, be sure and tell him I said ‘hi’.”

“I will.” Gwen looked at Phil over the rim of her Coke. May’s eyes were still darting across the room. “You knew about my safe house. And you know about ‘Fay ce que voudras’, too. I’m curious as to how you found that out.”

He shrugged. “S.H.I.E.L.D. knows stuff. The ‘E’ used to stand for ‘Espionage’, after all.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. never had that much hard intel about Torchwood. Toshiko made very sure of that. Tuesday afternoons were slow at the Hub, and she preferred hacking you lot to watching _Diagnosis: Murder_ with the rest of us. You and May only know us because you met us.”

Coulson smiled blandly. “Maybe my new team is just that good.”

“Maybe.” Gwen rested her elbows on the table. “Or maybe Fury gave you the Toolbox.”

Coulson’s smile did not change. 

“The crown jewels gathered by the king of spies. Jack always suspected that Fury knew more than he was letting on, even to the rest of you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew about the Friars of St. Francis, and something about what they hid. If, as you claim, that information has spread any further, you have a problem.”

“We do indeed.”

“And you need my help to secure it, because of the body-print.” Gwen drained what remained of her Coke. “There is, of course, an elephant in the distressingly Seventies-wallpapered room.”

May’s gaze returned from the middle distance to focus on Gwen’s face.

“You lot gutted us, Phil. When the 456 came, S.H.I.E.L.D. descended on the Hub like UNIT and the other vultures. You were all so busy squabbling over our corpse that none of you really seemed to be giving a shit about the alien junkies tithing children.”

“No one knew how to deal with the 456, back then.” Coulson leaned forward to look Gwen in the eyes. “Stark was still a drunken playboy. We didn’t have a Prince of Asgard batting on our team. That didn’t remove the need to secure your Hub. You were three people, Gwen, sitting on half-understood tech that could kill everyone on this planet except your line-manager. It’s blind luck that you weren’t taken out before.”

“You’re probably right. That’s why I forgave UNIT years ago. But UNIT didn’t reverse–engineer the Slitheen badges that Ianto had stashed in Sub-Basement 3 and use them to fry the World Security Council. S.H.I.E.L.D. took our tech and handed it to Nazis. You’ll understand why I have trouble getting past that.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get past that, Gwen. Neither will May.”

May nodded.

“You were supposed to be the shield, Phil.” 

“If it was alien, it was supposed to be yours.” Phil reached across to refill Gwen’s glass of water. “None of us can claim to be what we were meant to be anymore. Doesn’t mean we get to stand down now.”

Gwen sat silent for a moment, and slowly nodded. “OK. I’m in.”

“Thank you.”

“What happened to your hand, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Line of duty. Touched something I shouldn’t have.”

“Sorry to hear it. Is that the rest of your team?”

Coulson followed Gwen’s gaze to the door. “Yes. That’s them.”

“The Babes in the Wood.” Gwen took a slurp of water. “I think that I mean that in several senses.”

“Daisy was the last Agent sworn in before old S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. Grant Ward is a very long and complicated story indeed.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing it.”

Daisy was a startlingly good-looking twenty-something woman with short brown hair. She wore the same kind of cat-suit as May, because female S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives had seemingly forgotten how not to dress like ninjas. Daisy had a wide smile, a firm handshake, and eyes that flickered briefly over Gwen as Coulson made introductions (shoulders, arms, wrists, legs; height, weight, reach, dominant hand) in a way that quashed any doubt that The Cavalry had found herself a squire. Ward looked like the sort of bloke who delivered boxes of chocolates to inaccessible locations. Like May, he seemed to be sweeping the restaurant for bandits among the cruets.

"Gwen is Torchwood," said Coulson, after Ron had dropped off the steaming plates and dessert menus.

"Uh-huh," said Daisy, with an onion ring halfway to her mouth. She ate like someone who hadn't always known where her next meal was coming from. "Cliff Notes on that for the newbie?"

Coulson laid down his fork. "Any agency that lasts long enough radiates its spectrum of unlikely stories. That in the Seventies, or possibly the Eighties, the Chief Scientific Advisor to UNIT was an alien."

"That Steve Rogers wasn't killed at the end of World War Two," Gwen chipped in, chasing peas around her plate, "but frozen solid in a glacier instead. An unholy mix of the King Beneath the Hill and the reason why Mum's gone to Iceland."

"That towards the close of the Nineteenth Century," Coulson continued, "an unavowed agency outside Her Majesty's Government recruited an Enhanced by the name of Jack Harkness, a man who couldn't permanently die. Tall tales," he wiped his mouth with a napkin, "which have a habit of being true."

"This immortal," Daisy looked thoughtful, "where is he now?"

"Nowhere special." Gwen speared her final pea. "Jack recruited me."

"Are you the same? Immortal?"

"I'm just like Jack, now."

"She's lying." Coulson folded his napkin. "You'll get used to that. Torchwood learnt their play-book from their quarry, long ago. Which means that the first rule, and the most important, is this: 'Torchwood lies.'"

"Guilty as charged. But Torchwood does have another immortal." Gwen's hands, for a moment, were very still. "Do you remember the Miracle, Phil?"

"That was a mess. We'll have to look into it some day."

Gwen cleared her throat. "Well, at the end of it, Jack got a little bit contagious. The man in question now has sympathetic immortality. He's... out of the picture at the moment, though." She bent her head back over her steak. "You're stuck with me."

"How did you meet these people, sir?" Ward had barely touched his food.

"May and I would occasionally run into Gwen and Jack and their associates on missions. Sometimes we were all chasing the same thing. That could get pretty wild." Coulson chuckled. "Like in Paris."

"Oh, will you people give it a rest about bloody Paris."

"You're just peeved because you missed the sword-fight."

"May and I were a bit preoccupied beating each other up while locked in a pantry."

"Who won?" asked Daisy.

"Take a wild guess," said May.

"May landed a TKO in about round five. Lucky punch." May raised an eyebrow. "OK - maybe a dozen lucky punches. By the time she dragged me out, it was all over bar the shouting, and Retconning most of the French court."

"Did we mention that there was time-travel?" Coulson smiled fondly. "There was time-travel."

"To this day, I haven't worked out how you persuaded Jack to give up the package to you so easily, Phil."

"A gentleman never tells. Good days. But long gone."

"Yes. Like I said, you're stuck with me. Just me."

"Just you?" Coulson's brow furrowed. "May told me that she found you alone in your garden, Gwen. She also said that, since she took in your 'phone and guns..."

"Bloody ridiculous precautions. You called _me_ paranoid."

"... you haven't tried to contact anyone." Coulson scratched his head. "What about your family, Gwen? What about Rhys?"

"He left me." Gwen's eyes dropped to the dessert menu. "I think that we'd better talk about where we're going."


	4. Merry and Sad to Tell.

"At about the time of the Civil War - the English one, not yours - there lived an individual named Lady Peinforte. 'Lady', to my mind, is pushing it; she was a piece of work. Peinforte was a nasty woman, nowhere near as clever as she thought she was, but with a vein of street-fighter's cunning, and a nose for secrets. She also practised black magic."

"Magic?" Daisy's nose wrinkled. "I thought that was an Asgard thing."

"It is. But there are other ways to do it. The reality cheat-codes of the Carrionites, for example. Or, if you know what you're doing, you can travel else-wise, to the Halls of the Howling, to the Outer Dark. The lurkers there - Fenric, Cyttorak, the Toymaker, the Trinity of Ashes - are more ideas than anything alive. Old books call them the Principalities. They'll trade you power, if you're ready to make a deal." Gwen was silent for a moment. She beckoned across the room. "You could call that ‘magic’."

"So, that was what Peinforte did?" Ward asked, after Ron had trotted off in the direction of the kitchen with Gwen's order of ice-cream. "She made a deal?"

"Yes. It probably consumed her, in the end. She disappeared in 1638. No one's altogether sure what happened. UNIT knows something about that, but they're not talking.

"Anyway, Peinforte, like I said, had a nose for secrets. Among the secrets she ferreted out was a relic of Asgard - stashed away on Earth and abandoned, long ago. After her disappearance, the relic passed through the possession of several interested parties. Then the Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe got their hands on it. That, believe me, was never a good thing.

"The Friars cached the relic with all their other treasures, in the Medmenham Caves. A place of ancient lore and hidden peril, near Henley-on-Thames. That last bit always sounds better in my head.

"Jack and I secured the Caves for Torchwood several years ago. The Friars of St. Francis are long gone. They left some security measures behind, but those didn't cause us any problems. We confiscated..."

"... stole..." Coulson murmured, _sotto voce_.

"... confiscated almost all the trove, but we left the thing of Asgard where it was."

"Why was that?" asked Daisy.

"Asgardian tech can be a bit toffee-nosed. Takes its ball home unless it thinks you're worthy. It's like being judged by your ironing-board. Typically better left unprodded. Jack and I put a body-print lock and some other protections on its chamber, to keep it safe, and buggered off for a curry in Marlow. Madras, as I recall."

"And this weapon of Asgard," Ward had pushed his plate to one side, "what is it?"

"I have no idea. Jack went into the chamber alone. You can't be too careful, on a job like that; I think that he was afraid it would melt my face off. The end of _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ is practically a public information film for this line of work. Jack told me afterwards that the room itself had been completely safe. He wouldn't spill about the artefact. You know what a bloody tease he can be, Phil. I quizzed him over the poppadoms, to no avail."

Conversation lapsed while Ron brought out Gwen's sundae, chatted with her about the away form of Wycombe Wanderers, and withdrew. 

"Sure I can't tempt any of you to dessert?" Gwen asked, her spoon poised over the ice-cream.

"We're on the clock," said May.

"I eat fast." Gwen wiped her mouth. "And you people could do with stopping to smell the roses."

"It's not our way," said Coulson. 

"Maybe it should be. I know the Carter Doctrine..."

"'Remove yourself from the world you want to save.'"

Gwen nodded. "Unhealthy, to my way of thinking. I'm not sure even Peggy Carter herself was really convinced by it. You start to drift away from what matters." She smiled in the direction of the kitchen. "Away from people like Ron."

"Perhaps," Coulson folded his hands, "Yvonne."

Gwen flushed.

"As a matter of interest, who does Ron think you are?"

"Yvonne Pallister, from Swansea. Thirty-eight next October; worries about her cellulite. Travels around the country demonstrating software to archivists. Married to Brian; two daughters, Becky and Rhiannon. Becks is having trouble getting over Zayn's departure from One Direction." Gwen stabbed at the sundae with her spoon. "Point taken."

Coulson nodded.

"What's changed, Phil? I imagine you've had the Toolbox for a while. The Caves aren't going anywhere. What's the new threat?"

"We have compelling intel that the sites of the major 0-8-4s in Southern England have recently been compromised. I'm sanguine about security at the Black Archive..."

Gwen snorted. "I'm not. I could spin you stories about Zygons that would stand your hair on end..."

"... And even my current resources can't tell me where Torchwood is stockpiling most of the items you've plundered or recovered since the 456. Probably not in this country. Possibly not even in this dimension."

Gwen smiled into the remnants of her sundae.

"So, the Medmenham 0-8-4 is one of the most significant left in the wild, Torchwood security precautions notwithstanding. If it's Asgardian, it could be trouble. I'd be easier in my mind if you helped us check it out."

"Fair enough. It isn't too far from here. May's car will be a squeeze for the five of us. I take it that you and the young people here brought an SUV? I really miss swanking around in one of those."

"We did."

"If you're very good," said May, "we'll spray big 'T's on it, to make it more covert."

"I hate you so much," said Gwen.


	5. Ghosts to Raise.

An SUV was, indeed, waiting in _The Crown’s_ concrete forecourt beside May’s car. It was very black and moderately glossy. The Americans gathered for a confab a short distance away from Gwen; even the most seasoned Agents of S.H.I.E L.D. apparently got their _Famous Five_ on when it came to deciding who sat where in a convoy. In the end, May and Ward, the latter talking into his ear, peeled off to take the car. Coulson drove Daisy and Gwen in the SUV.

Grotty weather had tailed Gwen from the Welsh coast. Gusts rolled rain against the windscreen of the SUV like a worn-out craps player chasing a seven. Daisy stared out of the window as the less distinguished cuts of Buckinghamshire dampened around them. 

“It’s very… green,” she offered, after a while.

“I appreciate the politeness, love, but you needn’t worry.” Gwen rearranged herself in her seat, trying to stop the belt from digging into the bruises from her brawl with May. “I don’t own the country. Jack claims that there’s a clause in our Charter by which Torchwood could take possession, but that requires the entire Royal Family to be abducted by aliens, and it’s more than likely that he was just taking the piss.” She glanced at the hand that Daisy was resting next to her. “You’ve barked your knuckles on something.”

Daisy frowned, and stretched out her fingers. “So I have. Wonder how that happened?”

“I’ll give it a dab. I’ve got some wipes. Hold it out.” Gwen laid her hand on Daisy’s wrist as she rummaged in a pocket. 

“You said in _The Crown_ that you knew two immortals. Where’s the other one?”

“ _Hors de combat_ , at the moment. He took a blow to the back of the head from a blunt implement.”

“A blackjack?”

“A helicarrier. Rex was in your Triskelion when it went down. He’d become suspicious about S.H.I.E.L.D. policy in the run-up to Project Insight and snuck in for a gander. That’s what we get for trying to clean up your shit.”

Daisy coloured, and tensed her hand. Gwen winced. “Sorry. That was bitchy, and undeserved. I just don’t like to think of him, down there in the dark, staying dead because of all the tons of concrete above him. He’ll be back, eventually. They’re clearing the site. On Earth, Rex is just as unkillable now as Jack. Once someone rolls away the right stone, he’ll step forth like an Aldi Jesus. But until then… it gets to me, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Daisy.” Gwen finished her ministrations with the wipes. “Definitely not your fault. How long had you been a full Agent when old S.H.I.E.L.D. fell?”

“About six hours.”

“And what about Mr. Ward?”

“Grant Ward is a very long and complicated story indeed.”

“I’m sure.” 

Daisy reached out to touch Gwen’s hand again as she began to pack the wipes away. “You still wear your wedding ring.”

“It’s a prop. Yvonne Pallister is happily married, remember. Most of my covers are.”

Daisy cocked her head on one side. “Is that the only reason?”

Gwen looked into the young American’s quizzical face, and sighed. “No. It’s not. Otherwise I wouldn’t hang on to this, as well.” She pulled at a silver chain around her neck, and fished out a small, polished piece of aquamarine at its nadir. 

“That’s pretty,” said Daisy.

“Isn’t it just?” Gwen dangled the chain between her fingers. “Rhys bought it for me in Blackpool. God alone knows where. It’s pound-shops there as far as the eye can see, these days, if you’re close to the seafront. He gave this to me on the big broad spot in front of the Tower, where you walk over the words of limp jokes and the names of comics everyone’s forgotten, and the wind hits you like a double of good Scotch. I felt like I could die right there, knowing it was the end to a life in which I’d been that happy.” Gwen bit her lip, and slipped the aquamarine back under her top. “Dying at the time you should is a knack that Torchwood never really had.”

She leaned forward and tapped Coulson on the shoulder. “We turn off here.” 

The SUV eventually drew up in a clearing, amid a grove of evergreen trees. To the north, the land rose sharply. A passage-way, barred by a metal gate, delved into the base of the hill. Carved above the passage-way was the legend FAY CE QUE VOUDRAS. Gwen got out, and eyed it thoughtfully. 

“It’s quiet,” said Coulson, as he came to stand beside her, locking the SUV after Daisy had followed suit. “I thought that the Medmenham Caves were a tourist attraction.”

“The fake ones are.” Gwen continued to scan the door. “Those are miles away. The Friars of St. Francis were pretty clever. They knew that dark rumours would start to swirl around them. So they cultivated a reputation for more pedestrian sins – essentially, for lots and lots of sex – and made people think that the dirty went down somewhere else. Hid their business with ablative smut. Torchwood could have taken lessons.”

“The Friars of St. Francis don’t sound like they were all that godly,” said Daisy. 

“That was just their name for themselves.” Gwen scratched her head. “Most people prefer to call them the Hellfire Club. I’m a little concerned about the quality of your intel, Phil. This place really doesn’t look as though it’s been disturbed since the last time I was here.”

Coulson frowned. “How does Torchwood guarantee the site’s security?”

“It’s private land, for a start. This is one case where Torchwood really does own the place. No one for miles around has any reason to come. The front door isn’t a full body-print, but it’s still secured by biometrics.” Gwen pushed her thumb against a spot on the gate, and brought her eye down to meet a beam of light that shone out just above it in response. There was a click; the gate swung open. “See?”

Coulson’s lips tightened. “We still need to check it out.”

“Agreed.” Gwen looked around. “Did you bring lights, Mr. Ward?”

Ward tossed her a torch. “Standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue.”

“Good man.” Gwen trained the torch on the opening. “Follow me.”

Small chambers, in succession, yielded up their vacancy to the lamplight. Daisy shivered. 

“You said that the Friars left their own security precautions behind. Should we be worried about those?”

“Hmm? Oh – Jack and I got all the way to the centre last time, with no problems. I really don’t think that you need to fret.”

 _Hello, Twice-Sworn One_ , said a voice from the dark.

Gwen swallowed. “Of course, I have been wrong before.”


	6. What Would You Buy?

The beam from May’s torch darted about the room as she stepped forward. “Show yourself.”

 _That would be an arduous undertaking._ The lunging light revealed bare walls. _Would you accept a signature instead?_

Three gashes opened on May’s cheek, as though from claws. She counter-punched, snake-quick. Her fist met air.

“That won’t work, May. They’re elementals - only real on sufferance. The Friars must have bound them into service.” Gwen raised her voice. “Am I right?”

_You are, Twice-Sworn One._

Gwen’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get to name me. You don’t know me.”

 _But we do. You have walked the Halls. Your shame is written in the Ceaseless Scrolls. We know what you did, Twice-Sworn One._

Gwen winced as wounds furrowed her throat. 

_We know what you_ sold.

“I’ve had enough of this.” Daisy clenched her fist.

Gwen took a breath. “You can’t hurt them, Daisy.”

“Wanna bet?”

“She’s right.” Ward stepped in front of Daisy. “What you’re thinking is too dangerous. We’re underground.”

 _Listen to your betters, child._ Daisy cried out and clamped her hand to her side. _Run home to your dam. Find balm for your bruised knees and kisses for your cheeks. A mother’s love is a holy thing, is it not, Twice-Sworn One?_

“There has to be some way we can hit these things,” May hissed. 

“Jesus Christ, May. You never did know when to fold ’em. It’s your only big weakness as a fighter. Is it true that you once went for an Asgardian with your fists?”

“Asks the woman who machine-gunned a Dalek.”

“Enough.” Coulson raised his hand. “Gwen – you said that, last time, these creatures didn’t give you any trouble?”

“Not a sausage.”

“I see.” Coulson squared his shoulders, and addressed the air. “Hi. We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Phil Coulson, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.. These people are with me.”

_Your titles are of no account, little man. Nothing that lives can defy us._

Coulson smiled. “I guess there’s only one way for you to prove that.”

A line of blood scored across the skin of his forehead. There was a hiss as though of quenched metal, and what sounded like a howl of pain. 

“That’s what I thought.” Coulson’s smile broadened. “‘Nothing that lives’ really means ‘nothing that hasn’t died’. You could see Jack Harkness coming a mile off. I wasn’t quite enough to ping your radar. But the end result’s the same.” The smile vanished. “These people are with me. Consider yourselves abjured.”

Silence lengthened in the room. There were no more voices.

“‘Abjured’,” said Daisy, eventually. “That was cool.”

Coulson shrugged. “I do a lot of crosswords.”

“Time for us to move on, then?”

“Not quite.” Coulson looked at Gwen. “First, I’ll be needing an explanation.”

Gwen frowned. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“I don’t. I’m choosing to believe the part about ‘what you did’. Care to elaborate on that?”

“We don’t have time for this now, Phil. I thought that you were in a hurry.” 

“She has a point, Director,” Ward observed. 

“See? Clock’s ticking.” Gwen turned to the passage that led further into the hill. “Right. For the next bit…”

“I’m opening a window in my schedule,” said Coulson. May, somehow, was already standing in Gwen’s way. “And I’m thinking about Rule One. Tell me the truth, Gwen. I want to know.”

Gwen bit her lip. “You really don’t.”

“Try me.”

Gwen glanced back at May, and rubbed her brow. “OK. You remember the Miracle, Phil? Months and months when no one on Earth could die? Population explosion, plague, famine, economic collapse?”

“Of course. That was a mess. We'll have to look into it some day."

“But as soon as the Miracle stopped, humanity just picked itself up, dusted itself down, and went on as though global immortality had never happened. No score-settling, no enquiries, no blackmail, no cults, no one wading in to take advantage. Shuffle the deck, and start again.” Gwen turned. “Does that strike you as at all odd, May?”

May frowned. “That was a mess. We'll have to look into it some day."

“What about you, Mr. Ward?” Gwen’s colour was high now. There was a new edge to her voice. “Obviously, it was better than the alternative. How would the world have tottered back to its feet if it had gone on revisiting what it did? But you have to ask: how the bloody hell did everyone _get over it_?”

“That was a mess. We’ll have to look… into… it…” Ward’s voice trailed off. His eyes widened. “Jesus Christ.”

“Denial,” Coulson whispered. “It’s a magical place.” He strode across the room to look Gwen in the face. “You Retconned the world.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” The colour had drained from Gwen’s cheeks. “I wanted to see every snivelling, blame-storming little shit behind the lies and the profiteering and the ovens burn in a hell I stoked for them. But the people behind the Miracle – the Three Families – well, their back-up plan was to exploit collective guilt over what had been done. The only way I could fight that – the only way to save the world from them, again – was to make it… distant. Everyone _sort of_ remembers the Miracle. People know what happened. Those who lost loved ones grieve for them. But no one can really join the dots about the Miracle itself. Your thoughts just slip off it, if you try. As you can see, someone like an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. can break out of that, with very heavy prompting. Most people can’t.

“It worked, more or less. The Families found that their precious Plan B was fucked over. A lot of bad people got away with murder, but that’s nothing new. The world span on.”

“What you’re claiming is impossible, Gwen.” Coulson had not looked away. “Last time I checked, Torchwood had a gift for casual mendacity and a glorified date-rape drug to smooth its path. You couldn’t tinker with the memories of a world. No human has that kind of power.” 

“One human does.”

“You mean... Oh.” Coulson passed a hand across his eyes. “Gwen, what have you done? May…”

“I’m on it.” May had unbuttoned a pouch at her belt. It contained salt, which she began to sprinkle in a circle. “Salem Protocol. Daisy, Ward, you need to get inside this circle.”

“There’s really no need.” Gwen’s voice had dropped again. “Even if he cares, which I doubt, he can’t eavesdrop on us right now. The Friars of St. Francis chose Medmenham for a purpose. No one and nothing can spy on these Caves. Even the Watcher on the Bifrost can’t see what happens in this place. Maybe the Carrionites put down an Occluding Word here, long ago, before the Eternals locked them away. Whatever the reason, it suited the Friars down to the ground. ‘Fay ce que voudras’, you see. ‘Do what thou wilt.’”

“I’m not taking the risk.”

“What’s with this routine?” asked Daisy. Her eyes darted between Coulson and Gwen. “Who are you talking about?”

Coulson waited until she stepped inside the circle before speaking again. “During your childhood, Daisy, you spent a while in New York City.”

“Uh-huh. At St. Agnes’.”

“Then you’ve heard the stories about the house on Bleecker Street.”

Daisy stared. “Those were true?”

“Oh yes.” Gwen looked absently at the salt, candid against the dark floor. “Spoken in whispers, maybe. But they’re true.”

“Then why doesn’t S.H.I.E.L.D. ever talk about it?”

“The man who lives on Bleecker Street,” said Coulson, “was a subject cleared for Level Seven Agents and above. Salem Protocol governs all verbal references to him, because there’s a better than evens chance that he can hear them. S.H.I.E.L.D. only ever dealt with him the once.”

“When was that?” asked May.

“That’s how Fury lost his eye. The inhabitant of Bleecker Street always has a price, you see. That price is always far too high.” Coulson looked back at Gwen. “Does he own you now, Gwen? Do you owe him a favour?”

“No,” said Gwen. Her gaze was still locked on the floor. “I paid up front.”

“I see.” Coulson’s face was grey. “Gwen, why did Rhys leave you?”

“I had nothing.” Gwen continued to address the ground. “The Families… they would have taken everything, with Plan B. This whole stupid, screwed-up, gorgeous little world would have been theirs. The serpent was tearing at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s bowels, and none of us knew. UNIT were as useful as a chocolate fireguard. Jack’s other business had taken him away from Earth. And I had nothing. No weapons, no tricks, no edge. Nothing. So I went to the warlock of Bleecker Street.” Gwen looked up. “To save the world, I sold him my daughter’s tears.” 

“What does that mean?” said Daisy. She took a step closer to Gwen. 

“You don’t ever want to know. I may not be immortal, Phil. But I was telling the truth when I said that, now, I’m just like Jack.”

Daisy’s strike was fast and hard. Gwen made no effort to evade it. Another hand blocked Daisy’s about an inch from her face. 

“Stand down, Daisy.” May sounded tired. “We have a mission, remember?”

“OK. I can deal. For now. But if I’m getting this right, she sold her little girl.” Daisy shook free of May’s grip and moved forward to stand right next to Gwen. “When this is done, Torchwood, it’s you and me. “

Gwen nodded. “I’d expect no less.” 

“Good. You’ll find I’m not as nice as May.” Daisy shut her eyes and visibly composed herself. “Can we finish this now, Director? Check the 0-8-4 and leave?” 

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”


	7. Ill Didst Thou Buy.

“For the last leg,” said Gwen, after a long silence, “we have an issue. As I mentioned at _The Crown_ , Jack and I took special precautions with the final chamber. It has a full body-print lock, keyed to active Torchwood personnel. That means that I’ll have to go into the room alone to switch it off. After that, other people can come in with me, but I’d suggest that only one of you does that. This kind of security system can be a little temperamental.”

“‘Temperamental’ as in ‘car-alarm’?” asked Coulson, in the wistful tone of one who hopes for confirmation, but does not expect it. 

“‘Temperamental’ as in ‘blast radius’. It’s classic Torchwood security, I’m afraid. Remember that, at the old Hub, Emergency Protocol One was ‘rip reality a new one’. Because of the risks, it’s better if most of you stay here. Mr. Ward can come along and keep me honest.”

“Why Ward?” said Coulson. 

“He’s a big strong lad. I don’t know what the artefact is, but it was made by Asgardians. They may not all be Thor, but even the weedy ones can bench a Volvo. I’ll probably need help carrying it out.”

“Agreed. Ward, you’re with Gwen. The rest of us will stay here until you’re done.”

“Thank you.” Gwen looked at Daisy. “I’m sorry.”

“Go to Hell,” the young woman said, tonelessly. 

“Way ahead of you, love,” Gwen murmured, as she led Ward further into the caves. “Way ahead of you.”

A few more stone chambers succeeded each other. At last, Gwen came to a halt in front of another metal door. She put her hand against it and, for a moment, was suffused with dim blue light. The door clicked.

“Good. I’ll turn off the internal security. Wait here.”

Gwen disappeared into the chamber. After a few seconds, Ward heard a muffled “Oh fuck…” He drew his sidearm. 

“What’s happening?” he called. 

“You’d better get in here, Mr. Ward. We have a problem.”

Ward slipped through the door. The circular room beyond was bigger than any he had seen elsewhere in the complex. Also unlike the others, it was lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Light shone down on Gwen, who was standing with her back to Ward, and on a simple stone plinth in the centre of the chamber. 

The plinth was empty. 

“I honestly can’t see how it happened.” Gwen ran a hand through her hair. “This place was tight as a drum. Either there was never anything here in the first place, or Jack must have come back by himself and nicked it without telling me. He’s always pulling stunts like that.”

“All for nothing.” Ward licked his dry lips. “Torchwood, with its dead secrets and empty coffers…” He looked at Gwen’s back. “You really are a dumb bitch, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Ward.” Gwen’s gaze was still locked on the plinth. “I have my moments. Right now, for example, I’d bet quite a lot of money that you’re wondering why your sidearm just failed to fire.”

Gwen turned. She looked at Ward, and the gun that was trained on her. She smiled. Ward’s brow furrowed as he pulled the trigger again. Nothing happened. 

“State of Temporal Grace.” Gwen toyed absently with her pendant. “The Time Lords invented it on vanished Gallifrey, long ago. In a designated area, energy weapons and firearms just don’t work. My friend Toshiko was very good at reverse-engineering, wasn’t she? Jack put one up throughout the inner chambers.”

Ward found his voice. “How…?”

“You really had me going, for a while. Of course, I knew fairly quickly that something was up. I’m sure you’re a clever man, Mr. Ward. But you were in a hurry, and it showed. S.H.I.E.L.D. pulls me in to consult on a mission, but they take away my guns and ’phone. There’s a time-limit, but no one gives me a straight answer as to why. Phil seems much as I remember him; May still floats like a butterfly and stings like a Vespiform. But even May doesn’t usually wear her combat gear on a mission that might involve a lot of talking to civilians. And you show up with _one_ SUV, and a random car. I’m guessing that the car was nicked.”

Gwen stepped forward. “At first, I thought that Daisy was the cuckoo in the nest. In my experience, it’s never a good idea to trust anyone with hair that perfect. But I was wrong about Daisy, with her big eyes, and her compassion, and her pulse of, what, 300 BPM when she’s under stress? I riled her up and took her pulse in the SUV. Oh yes – Daisy has a secret alright, but she’s exactly the sweetheart she seems to be. That really should have been the clue. No one with that much humanity was ever going to be altogether human. 

“Which leaves Mr. Ward, whom everyone agrees to be a ‘very long and complicated story indeed’. In exactly those words and that inflection, every time. Mr. Ward, who’s the only one I’ve seen on the blower to anyone who isn’t here. So I have to ask, Mr. Ward: how are you managing the mind-control?”

Ward smiled. “Maybe I was born that way.”

“Bollocks. I know that there are Gifteds able to give orders that no one can disobey. The stories about them are horrible. But if you could do that, you’d have done it to me by now. I’m guessing disposable tech, instead.”

“There wasn’t enough left for you.” Ward held up his other hand. On it, Gwen could see the glitter of silvery motes. 

“Cyber-dust. Very fancy. Far-future tech, that is. Must have dropped through a discontinuity. Why isn’t it cybernizing everything it touches?”

“My science boys played around with it. Now, it slaves neural function to the master unit,” Ward tapped the side of his head, “which is just beneath my skin.”

“That explains a lot. Why most of the time Phil and May are behaving very much as usual. It would drain a lot of power to take full control. So, you gave them basic orders about the nature of the mission, and, I’m guessing, suppressed some of their memories of dealing with you before. Aren’t you Mr. Clever?” Gwen’s smile left her face. “Release them. Now. I won’t ask twice.”

“Are you threatening me, Torchwood?” Ward stowed his gun and walked forward to meet her. A big man, about the size of Jack, a head or more taller than Gwen. “How did you describe that Cavalier witch to Phil? ‘A nasty woman, nowhere near as clever as she thought she was, but with a vein of street-fighter’s cunning, and a nose for secrets.’ That’s you. What are you, really, without your alien gossip and your stolen conjuring tricks? Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“That’s an interesting theory, Mr. Ward.” Gwen raised her hands and, with deliberation, balled her fists. “But I’ve got everything I need to beat you right here.”

Ward snorted. “I’m guessing that the great and powerful Time Lords never bothered to interdict kicks or punches. It does drain power from the cyber-unit to give big orders. But I’ve got the minutes in hand. I could call S.H.I.E.L.D. in and pull up a chair. How long do you think that you would last, Gwen, if I told The Cavalry to go easy on the reins? But I think it would be more fun to do that myself.”

“Fine by me. I’ll count to three.” Gwen landed a left hook to Ward’s head. He took the punch, and twisted with it. “Some day.”

“You hit pretty hard for a failed home-maker.” Ward moved in. Gwen managed to block or duck his first few punches, getting in several more blows of her own, before he doubled her up with a hard right to the abdomen. “But you’re delusional if you think that…” Ward stopped. His expression glazed. “What have you done?”

Gwen spat on the floor, and grinned. “Error messages in your head from your shiny cyber-tech, hmm? ‘Full system failure in three seconds’, something like that?”

“How did you…?”

“It’s not the punch, Mr. Ward. It’s the knuckle-duster.” Gwen held up her left hand. “My wedding-ring. It’s made of gold.”

Footsteps could now be heard outside the chamber. They were light and very, very fast. 

“I think that we both know who that is.” Gwen’s grin broadened. “I’m inclined to suspect that she’s in a mood.”

Shortly thereafter, the ground began to shake.


	8. Fall Like A Rose-Leaf Down.

Melinda May barrelled through the doorway, and charged Ward. The two went down in a confusion of arms and legs, as the floor shivered in another tremor.

“Earthquake. Hmm. Dramatically appropriate,” said Gwen. She unbent, wincing, from the gut punch, and stood up. “But I’m ninety per cent sure that I didn’t do it.”

“Gwen.” Phil Coulson was at the doorway. “We need your help, outside. May – you got this?”

“I got this,” said May, as she ducked under Ward’s kick, and threw a jab.

“Excellent.” Gwen ran to the door. “I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted. Welcome back, Phil. What’s happening?”

“Ward’s HYDRA.” Coulson began to hurry out of the inner chambers, with Gwen in tow. 

“I’m on that page already.”

“He jumped the three of us while we were out on another mission. Daisy got a good shot in…”

“That will be how she barked her knuckles, then.”

“But then there was this dust and… The next thing I knew, my loyal specialist Ward was ‘reminding’ me that 0-8-4s outside S.H.I.E.L.D.’s control…”

“Where he wouldn’t run into anyone who knew him…”

“… had been compromised, and that we needed to secure them quickly.”

“Because S.H.I.E.L.D. would get suspicious, eventually, once you didn’t check in. Odd strategy, though. A treasure-hunt wouldn’t be my first plan, if I got my hands on limited edition mind-fuck dust. ”

“Ward likes to play the hero. It’s compulsive.”

“And he didn’t bank on Phil Coulson. Even when you were whammied, you just happened to lead him to an 0-8-4 guarded by someone you consider corrosively paranoid. Sometimes I think that your sub-conscious is smarter than my entire brain.” The ground shook once more. Dust feathered from the ceiling. Gwen scowled. “What the bloody hell is going on out there?”

“Ward must have called in reinforcements, to secure us after we delivered up the 0-8-4. They’d just rolled up outside the Caves when you broke the spell.” Coulson went on hustling through the narrow rooms that led back to the light. “Daisy’s holding them off.”

“By herself? Put me out of my misery, Phil. What is she?”

“Can’t you guess?”

Gwen scratched her head. “Let’s see. Mostly human phenotype… Behaves like she was brought up on Earth… Oh bloody hell. She’s only an Inhuman, isn’t she?”

“Torchwood knew about them?”

“We hoped that no one else did. If it becomes common knowledge in the galaxy that there are remains of a Kree experiment surviving on a Level Five world, we’ll be arse-deep in Judoon again before you can say ‘Shadow Proclamation’. So what’s her thing, then, Phil? What did Terrigenesis Bingo saddle her with? Please tell me that it isn’t spoon-bending.”

They had arrived at the main gate to the Caves, which was now hanging off its hinges. Coulson shrugged. “Take a look for yourself.”

Gwen looked. Her jaw dropped open.

“Well,” she said, “that’s not something you often see in Wycombe.”

Daisy had found some cover beside what was left of the SUV. Across the glade from her, a handful of men and women were sniping from the trees. As Daisy presented her palm to them, the air between bulged and distended, like paper at the touch of rain. A tree exploded.

“It’d bend a spoon,” Coulson observed mildly. 

“Yes. A spoon in _China_ ,” said Gwen. “Now that your mind’s your own again, can I have my…”

Coulson pressed a pair of guns into her hands. 

“You gorgeous man.” Gwen braced herself. “Here goes nothing.”

Five crowded minutes later, the remaining snipers had fled in rout, and a small piece of Buckinghamshire had been thoroughly deforested. Coulson looked up to see May slipping out of the Caves.

“Ward?” he asked.

May shook her head. “Gone. I lost him in the dark.”

“Are there any other exits, Gwen?”

“None I know, but I can’t rule it out. The Friars probably had some occult fire escapes we never found, just in case – they weren’t in the habit of making friends. Shadow Paths. Travelling like that is… unpleasant. He’ll sleep badly tonight, if he gets out.”

“Badly,” May flexed her hand absently, “and bleeding.”

“Then the day hasn’t…. hasn’t been a bust,” said Daisy. She staggered, and leaned against the wrecked SUV. “I don’t feel so good.”

“You don’t look it, either,” said Gwen. Sweat had painted Daisy’s hair to the sides of her bloodless face. Her legs gave way; she buckled to the grass. “Phil, do your girl’s powers always take it out of her like this?”

“No.” Coulson’s brow creased as he hunkered down by Daisy. “Not since she learnt how to control them.”

“Shit. The cyber-dust in her system must be turning sour.”

“I thought you burned that up, or something. Certainly felt like that for a moment, inside my head.”

“I did – for the most part. But Mr. Ward’s science boys must have calibrated it principally for humans. It’s not playing well with Daisy’s… existing upgrades. That’s probably the real reason Ward stopped her from going seismic in the Caves.” Gwen frowned. “Can you get a S.H.I.E.L.D. evac team here, pronto?”

“Like you said, I’d imagine they’re looking for us already. But we don’t have the instant coverage of the old days. They won’t be able to scramble a crew to Buckinghamshire in under two hours.”

“I see.” Gwen looked at the wreckage of the SUV and the car, then back at Daisy. The young woman’s eyes were unfocused now, her breathing shallow. Gwen straightened her back. “Oh well. It worked while it did. Phil, I can help. I’ll need my ’phone.”

The world already sounded muffled to Daisy as Gwen made her call. ( _“Hi. The word is ‘hotpot’. Yes – it’s me. Everything’s fine. Did you make it there OK? Good. Listen: a friend is hurt. I’ll need you to fetch the wheels."_ ) The world had retreated to a decorous distance by the time a van pulled into what was left of the glade, prompting a conversation between Gwen and May ( _“See? I did make you forty metres out.” “How did you warn him? Oh. Right. Colours run.” “Exactly. Colours run.”_ ) She was all but unconscious when several pairs of strong, gentle hands picked her up, and carried her to the van. Time passed, with only the rhythmic bump of cat’s-eyes beneath the wheels to mark its passing.


	9. This Would Best Heal My Ill.

Daisy awoke to the warmth of sunlight through a window, and the pleasant rasp of linen against her skin. She sat up in bed, wincing as the crease in the blankets caught at the claw-marks in her side from yesterday. Looking down, she saw that she was wearing nightclothes that were not her own. She wondered briefly whether that was more or less creepy than the alternatives.

The room held little more than the bed, a wardrobe, and a chair, on which her suit, boots, and gloves were neatly disposed. Daisy stared at them for a while, before slipping out of the nightclothes and putting them on. The wound on her flank, she now saw, had been dressed and bandaged.

The door to the room was not quite closed. Daisy eased it open. She stole along the passage-way beyond, stirring a medley of creaks from the boards beneath her feet, and a reel of motes in the sunlight. At the end of the passage-way, she found descending stairs.

The stair-case opened out into a kitchen. Daisy heard the thump of a kettle about to boil, a sebaceous hiss. She turned. A hefty, brown-haired man in his early forties stood beside a nearby oven, directing an expression of hieratic fervour at a sizzling saucepan. He looked up as Daisy cleared her throat. 

“Morning, love,” he said. His voice had a lilt that Daisy had begun to recognize. Some distance beyond him, a small head poked out from behind a table at about knee-level, regarded Daisy gravely for a moment, and withdrew. “We were just about to wake you. Hungry?”

“Starving,” said Daisy, realizing that she was. 

“I’ll be dishing up seconds shortly.”

“Thank you, Mr.…”

“Rhys, love. Rhys Williams. We were introduced yesterday, but you were a bit out of it.”

“Rhys Williams,” Daisy repeated. Fragments from the previous night tugged at her recollection. The little girl poked her head out again from behind the table, revealing big eyes, freckles, and long, dark hair. “I remember.” She smiled ruefully. “Torchwood lies.”

“Torchwood lies,” said Coulson. He was sitting at a table set for breakfast towards the other end of the room, opposite Gwen, with a _Guardian_ folded at the crossword in front of him. He glanced at Gwen. “But not about everything.”

“Take a pew,” said Rhys Williams. “I’ll fetch the fried stuff over.”

“Why did you lie?” Daisy asked, as she eased herself into a chair between Gwen and Coulson. “About Rhys and your little girl? I nearly laid you out because of it.”

“That reminds me,” said Gwen, through a mouthful of buttered toast. “Is after breakfast alright for that fight of ours?”

“Huh?”

“I believe that your exact words were: ‘When this is done, Torchwood, it’s you and me.’”

“Jeez. Are you for real? I still feel like I was hit by a truck.”

“Jolly good,” said Gwen. She pushed the plate of toast in Daisy’s direction. “You’re young, strong, trained by May, _and_ you can squirt earthquakes from your fingers. If we’re throwing down, love, it’s definitely going to be while you feel like shit.”

“Are you always looking for an angle, Gwen?” Coulson asked, without rancour.

“Bullies and victims go for the soft bits, Phil. In our time, Torchwood has been both.”

“You haven’t answered my question.” Daisy began to butter a slice of toast. 

“Fair enough.” Gwen sat back. “Two reasons, really. People try to get at Torchwood through Anwen and Rhys. The Three Families did; I almost sold Jack down the river, thanks to that. So, when I can, I run a game. Swear blind that I’m alone in the world, and leave Rhys a message to take Anwen to another safe house. This one, in fact.” Gwen gestured at the kitchen. “Luckily, it’s not that far from Medmenham, and there’s some rather nifty Hipocci automated medical tech stashed in the shed behind Rhys’ Black & Deckers. He was settling Anwen in here when I ’phoned him.”

“May said that you hadn’t tried to contact anyone.”

“May was a bit brain-scrambled yesterday. You all were. Otherwise, she’d have noticed earlier how odd it was that I happened to be putting a red pair of knickers on my washing-line alongside all those whites.”

“Colours run?”

“Colours run. Those knickers are always in my basket, just in case. Rhys looks in on the garden first, if he takes Anwen out for a walk.”

“Gotta love classic tradecraft,” said Coulson, inking another clue into the crossword.

“Where is May, by the way?” asked Daisy.

“Out on the lawn, doing her T’ai Chi.” Coulson popped a fried mushroom in his mouth. 

“I was lucky, of course,” Gwen continued. “If May had gone in the house, it would have been different. Or if I’d been hanging Rhys’ soggy y-fronts on the line instead.”

“Thanks for painting our guests a picture, love,” said Rhys, who had approached the table with a tray of bacon, sausages, scrambled eggs, and tea in hand. “I’m just glad that that plan doesn’t involve me shooting at anyone. Couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo, me.”

“You’d be a decent shot, love, if you wouldn’t keep aiming for the knees.”

“Cent-ah of _mass_ ,” announced Anwen, from across the room. 

“Exactly, sweetheart.”

“Concern for your family was one reason,” said Daisy. “What’s the other?”

Gwen coloured. Rhys cleared his throat. “I think that I’ll go read a story to Anwen for a bit. Glad you’re up, Daisy.”

Daisy smiled. “Thanks again.” 

Rhys nodded, and, scooping up Anwen, left the kitchen. Gwen fondly watched them leave, before standing and taking the salt cellar in hand. She sprinkled the powder in a circle around the table, and then sat down. 

“You know, don’t you, Phil?”

“I have a theory.” Phil set aside the paper, and helped himself to seconds. “The story you told us, Gwen… it wasn’t a lie, was it? Just not the whole truth.”

Gwen nodded. 

“You did sell your daughter’s tears. Rhys did leave you. What you omitted was that you got them back.”

“How did you know?”

“‘Twice-Sworn One’. I couldn’t understand why the guardians in the Caves would call you that. Then it hit me. The only way that anyone gets out of a deal with the warlock of Bleecker Street is to strike another one.” Coulson drummed his fingers. “Gwen… what did he make you do?”

“I went into the Halls of the Howling,” said Gwen, “to bring back something that he wanted.” Tea slopped on to the saucers as she poured it out. “I’d rather not say any more than that.”

“That released Anwen? Rhys forgave you?”

“More or less. I’m not sure that what I did can really be forgiven, even if it was to save the world. Do I love him and her? More than anything. Do they love me? I think so. I hope so. Does Rhys stay partly because he’s afraid of what I become without him? Almost certainly.” Gwen's fingers creased the table-cloth. “There has to be someone to guard the monsters.”

“You have a lonely job, Gwen.”

“That’s not me. That’s Rhys.”

Silence descended for a while. At last, Coulson tentatively asked, “Gwen?”

“Yes, Phil?”

“Would you show me what the Medmenham artefact really looks like?”

Gwen frowned. “You were there, Phil. There was no artefact.”

“Yeah. I remember. Lost secrets; betrayal; something moving in the dark. And, in the end, it was all for nothing.” Coulson took a swig of tea. “It’s a very Torchwood story.”

“It is.”

“Maybe just a little _too_ Torchwood.”

Gwen eyed him warily. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Temporal Grace, Gwen? Seriously? Even the Time Lords couldn’t get it to work outside their ships. Some people say that it was never really more than a clever lie. No – you knew what was in that room. You used it to disable Ward’s gun.”

“How could I have done that? You saw me only a couple of minutes later, Phil. I didn’t take anything from that room.”

“That was a problem, until I thought about what we know of Asgardian magic. Their speciality is illusions. I bet that Odin could make Mjölnir look like a walking-stick, if that took his fancy. And then I remembered that, in the SUV, on the way there, you were very eager to let me and Daisy know that you were wearing a necklace.” Coulson set down his cup. “When you left the central chamber with me, that pendant was in your pocket. The Medmenham 0-8-4 was around your neck.” He leaned forward. “So, Gwen, what does it really look like?”

Gwen heaved a deep sigh, and tapped the aquamarine pendant where it lay against her throat. The simple silver thread kindled, ramified. The aquamarine dissolved into a stillicide of gems. Daisy caught her breath. 

“The old stories call this ‘Brisingamen’,” said Gwen, threading the jewels between her fingers. “Peinforte thought that Loki must have stashed it here on Midgard, back when he was exploring the soft points between the Nine Realms, long ago. The line that Asgard ever got the real one back was just smarmy Skaldic spin. Allfather alone knows exactly what it can do, but Peinforte wrote that it could disguise itself, and unmake simple charms at the wearer’s whim.” Gwen smiled. “Because Asgard is notoriously hazy about the difference between technology and magic, ‘simple charms’ includes ‘firearms’. I was hoping to use it to break Ward’s hold on you all, as well, but cyber-dust was too advanced for a pleb like me to counterspell.” Gwen tapped the necklace again. The image of the aquamarine pendant was restored. “Hence the resort to chin music instead.”

“That would have come in handy against the snipers,” said Daisy.

“Sorry about that. Peinforte warned that using the counterspell app outside a warded area would light you up in the Heimdallsight like a Christmas tree. I didn’t think that a double-parked rainbow bussing in a cadre of disgruntled Space Vikings was likely to improve the situation. Bear that in mind,” Gwen slipped the pendant from around her neck, and put it on the table, “when you’re looking after it.”

Coulson raised his eyebrows. “You’re giving Brisingamen to us?”

“I like my Rhys’ jewellery a lot more, anyway.” Gwen took the original pendant from her pocket, and fastened it back around her neck. “It’s not as though I’d be able to stop you taking it. I have quick fists, unreliable magitech, and a way with people. S.H.I.E.L.D. has quinjets, kung-fu, and bespoke earthquakes. Ward made a fair point, you know. I’m not really much to write home about without my secrets and my tricks. And the Caves are compromised, now. I’d have to work out somewhere else to stash it.” Gwen smiled again. “You’re still the smartest man in the room, Phil Coulson. And you’re a shoo-in for Sir Bedivere. The man who always does the right thing with the tech – eventually.”

“ _First made and latest left of all the knights_ ,” Coulson said, smiling faintly. “I’m not that ancient, Gwen.”

“We had some good times in the old days, though, didn’t we? When we lifted the Dolorous Font from the Court of Miracles.”

“Yes. We did.” 

There was a knock at the door. 

That’ll be the pick-up.” Coulson stood, and slipped Brisingamen into his pocket. “I’ll fetch May.” Gwen rose and pulled him into a hug. “Look after yourself, Gwen. Remember that you have friends, as well as angles.” 

“Keep safe, Phil.” She looked over his shoulder at Daisy. “You take care of him, you hear? Or you’ll answer to me.”

“I am actually, legitimately, a little scared of that,” said Daisy. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye. And give my very best to May. I know that she doesn’t like goodbyes.”

Gwen watched as another from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s apparently infinite supply of black SUVS (they really did just have to rub it in) carried Coulson, May, and Daisy out of her drive. Her ’phone rang; she snapped it open.

“Rex? REX?! Bloody hell, it’s good to hear your voice. How long have you been… um… up? Please tell me that you haven’t psychologically scarred another trauma team.” The SUV turned out into the lane. “What? Oh, I’ve just been catching up with some old friends. Good people; you’d like them. Of course, this is you we’re talking about, so maybe not. Listen: Jack found out some more while he was chasing a lead at Knowhere.”

The SUV purred out of sight. 

“He says, ‘Four in play; two to go.’”


	10. Epilogue.

For a long time, after her return, there was no movement in the room. Below, blood and chalk lazily commingled. Above, the Anomaly Rue mulled the candlelight. 

The candle-flames bobbed as a door opened, closed. Footfalls sounded across the room. A shadow fell across the woman lying in the pentagram. A gloved hand reached out for what was cradled in her arms. 

“No,” said Gwen. She looked up at the tall figure standing above her, and hugged her burden closer to her chest. “Not yet. First, we seal the deal.”

“Very well.”

“Do you forgive all lien and obligation on my child?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear this by Agamotto, by Hoggoth, and by Oshtur?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear this by the Book, by the Orb, by the Eye…” Gwen’s body was wracked by gasps; more blood joined the chalk. She gritted her teeth. “ …by the Eye, and by the office that you hold?”

“You have done your homework this time, haven’t you? I do.”

“Then it’s yours.” Gwen relaxed her grip upon what she was holding. Gloved hands took custody of it, and removed it to a desk. Gwen drew a few shuddering breaths, slammed a hand against the floorboards, and forced herself to sit upright. 

“You have questions, I think.” 

“Yes.” Gwen moistened her cracked lips. “But not if their answers mean another deal.”

“How prudent. But do not distress yourself on that score. Consider the answers a tip, in acknowledgment of services well-rendered.”

“OK. William Blake. One of your mob, was he?”

“Oh yes. An adept of the highest order. We shared a tailor. Why do you ask?”

“There’s an old joke about ‘Jerusalem’. The right answer to everything in the first verse is ‘No’. The right answer to everything in the second is ‘Fetch it yourself’. You’re supposed to be the Mast…” Gwen winced, and composed herself again. “… You’re supposed to be the Master of the Mystic Arts. You wanted what I brought you. So my first question is ‘Why didn’t you fetch it yourself?’”

“Because They would have seen me coming. They were amply defended against the likes of me. Abjurations. Counterspells. The whole apotropaic jamboree. A mundane Welshwoman with a certain low cunning and a gift for knives wasn’t exactly something They expected.”

“I see.” Gwen rested her arms on her knees. “Question two. You never really cared about Anwen’s tears, did you?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Then why didn’t you just ask me to run this errand when I came the first time, looking for a way to bury the Miracle?”

“Because you wouldn’t have _won_ , then. You were insufficiently motivated.”

“‘Insufficiently motivated’,” Gwen repeated. “The world was at stake.”

“The world so often is. People tell me glibly that they’d do ‘anything’. It’s usually true. But most people have to work up to ‘anything’ by slow degrees, like an athlete leaning into a stretch. It’s the same for you, Gwen. You never think that far ahead. You’d sell your child to save the world; and then you’d burn Creation to save your child.”

“You really are a bastard, aren’t you?”

“I’m in good company. Torchwood churns Hells like credit cards, always one desperate deal ahead of damnation. But thank you, Gwen.” He gestured towards the blackened book on the desk. “The Darkhold will be invaluable, in the trials to come.”

“Trials to come?”

“Rest here for a while, Gwen Cooper. Recover your strength. When you leave, do convey my best regards to Captain Harkness. We all have a stake in what he’s chasing.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do. The Tesseract and the Mind Gem are already on the board. The others will surely follow. Two in play; four to go. It will bode ill for Captain Harkness, and for us all,” Strange rose, and walked towards the door, “if anyone else works out who the Time Gem is.”

FINIS


End file.
